


strings of fate binding us together

by winterbitch (WinterLadyy)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Apologies, Competent Jaskier, Elf Jaskier, First Kiss, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Geralt pines HARD, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier travels the world with another witcher friend, Jealous Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Travel, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:26:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22241023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterLadyy/pseuds/winterbitch
Summary: After Geralt blames Jaskier for everything, the bard leaves. He will not cry, he will not break down. He's much more than Geralt's useless companion and he will not let the Witcher ruin him. It's a stroke of luck that he meets another Witcher in Oxenfurt, and finally finds out what's it like to be openly called a friend.Then, they decide to spend winter in Kaer Morhen, and Coën isn't the only Witcher who goes there.It may be Geralt's only chance to apologize to his bard, his friend, his everything. 13 years is a long time to ponder one's mistakes and now, Geralt is desperate to fix what he broke.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Coën (The Witcher)
Comments: 260
Kudos: 4425
Collections: Geralt is Sorry, Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	1. Jaskier

**Author's Note:**

> yeah idk what is this. i rly just wanted geralt visiting kaer morhen and seeing jaskier there like "wtf ae u doing here". also, jaskier deserves a good friend and coën is a good boy

Jaskier will not cry and he’s adamant about it. So what that the damn Witcher basically told him that his one wish was to get rid of the bard? So what if the man he loved blamed him for everything wrong in his life? **  
**

He’s Julian Alfred Pankratz and he will not cry because of a fucking Witcher.

He travelled long before meeting Geralt and he will continue to do so even after the Witcher decided that apparently they’re not friends, 10 years of history be damned. He will be fine.

Jaskier spends the whole journey down the mountain convincing himself that, and by the end, with the mood high above his head, he almost believes himself. He’s just...empty. He doesn’t care that he may be killed, he just wants an inn, some ale and a good bed to forget everything.

Of course, the Fate is rarely so kind and soon he finds himself in the company of dwarfs, forcing himself to sing about the White Wolf least they kill him. It’s agony, to sing about Geralt as if his heart isn’t breaking, as if he doesn’t feel empty and hollow and defeated.

“Alright, gentlemen, I was almost killed today and I wish to take a rest now,” he says finally, giving them his best charming smile. They grumble but let him lay down next to the fire but Jaskier doesn’t sleep.

He looks up into the stars and wonders why he can’t be lucky in love. Why can’t he fall in love with some nice lady or a charming man who would appreciate him and love him back and let him kiss them whenever he wanted.

It’s agony, but Jaskier is good at surviving.

He parts his way from the dwarves and makes his way through the continent to Oxenfurt, where someone always takes to him kindly. Even if Geralt never cared to ask, Jaskier is a renowned professor and many come to his lectures, to listen to him talk and sing.

The journey isn’t easy, but he had worse, even without Geralt. By some miracle, he doesn’t get killed and the coin comes easy when he sings the popular tunes, generic ones about an unlikeable lord or beautiful women. Life is easy but Jaskier still feels empty.

When the impressive walls of Oxenfurt arise on the distance, he lets himself smile, humming a song about his university years. Jaskier can’t wait to get lost in the big city, forget all about the Witchers and witches and see young people learning and drinking.

Life will be easier now.

He’s right.

People welcome him easily, singing with him at the taverns, giving coin easily. Jaskier almost forgot how much easier it is to make a living in a big city, but the travels have their own charms. Charms separate from handsome, if idiotic Witchers.

To get rid of those treasonous thoughts, Jaskier drinks and charms people, landing in bed with both women and men, sleeping on silk sheets and eating good breakfast. Then, he goes to the University itself and gives lectures.

It does him good, getting lost in the enthusiasm of young people of all races, talking to those who answer with more than grunts and curses. It’s quite charming and slowly, Jaskier feels that empty hole in him begin to heal.

“You travelled with a Witcher, yes?” an old professor, his lecturer Lidenbrog, asks one day, after a finished lecture. 

Jaskier smiles and shrugs. “Yes, I did, for quite some time. Oh, the stories I still have to tell…” he trails off, fully aware that he will never write enother story about Geralt of Rivia and his adventures.

“There’s a Witcher in town,” Lidenbrog says and suddenly Jaskier is guarded. “Not your White Wolf, mind you, but some other one. There’s a problem with a downer nest in the waters surrounding the school. Mind asking him to help?”

“They don’t work for a little coin,” Jaskier warns bitterly.

“The Chancellor is ready to pay,” his old professor assures and well, he can’t say no to that man. Jaskier sighs and nods, already dreading the meeting.

He was doing quite good not seeing any Witchers and now he has to go and seek one out. Ridiculous.

Thankfully, it’s much easier to find a Witcher in Oxenfurt than it is in the middle of nowhere, and Jaskier enters the tavern with a big smile on his face. He plays and sings, about witches and dragons and taxes and people laugh, and it’s not hard to find the Witcher from the stage.

He’s a bit older than Geralt, at least looks so, with no wolf accents anywhere, but he’s undoubtedly a Witcher. Jaskier is good at just feeling them now.

He makes his goodbyes and gets two cups of ale, before plopping down in front of the Witcher.

“Hello, may I interest you in some ale?” he asks and pushes the cup closer, not waiting for an answer. “If not ale, please drink it anyway, it wouldn’t be good if I had to drink both myself, but maybe I’ll interest you in a contract. A well-paid contract, not too hard either,” Jaskier babbles, more than used to Geralt’s silence. He doubts that other Witchers are much different.

“You’re Geralt’s bard,” the man speaks up, completely disregarding anything Jaskier said.

He bristles and glares at the Witcher. “I’m not his anything, Witcher, and I’m much more than a bard. I know you Witchers aren’t used to normal human interactions, but it is a bit much,” he says firmly, fire in his heart.

Yet, it seems like the Witcher is determined to surprise him today. “You’re right,” the man agrees. “It was rude of me. My name is Coën and I’m from the School of Griffin.”

Jaskier stares at the man, Coën, in surprise. That’s more than he could get out of Geralt on a good day and for the first time, he wonders if maybe his luck is just that shit. Maybe he just had to fall for the most silent, annoying, grumpy Witcher out there,

He sighs and deflates. “I’m Julian Alfred Pankratz, but call me Jaskier. I also apologize, I’m a bit...touchy on the subject.”

Coën smiles, a mere tick of his lips and nods. “I could imagine. Haven’t heard any new stories about the White Wolf.”

“I don’t sing about him anymore,” Jaskier says coldly. “I’m not going around looking for people to belittle and humiliate me every day, contrary to the popular belief,” he snorts.

Really, many of it was his own fault for letting himself be treated that way. For letting Geralt punch and hurt him, over and over again. Well, at least that’s a lesson learned.

“Hmm, you seem smarter than that, yes,” the man agrees, once again leaving Jaskier stunned. Geralt would never answer like that, with actual words. It’s...nice, to have a normal conversation with a Witcher. “On the other hand, an elf is rarely stupid.”

Jaskier snorts into his ale and glances at Coën. “That obvious?” he asks, not even surprised anymore.

“Maybe I’m just observant,” the Witcher shrugs. “Gerald never realized?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Jaskier says, shrugging again. “But then again he never paid much attention to me.”

The Witcher hums at that, and Jaskier is too tired to try and read into it. He’s good at reading Geralt, but it’s pretty obvious that not all Witchers are the same.

“Well, tell me about the contract, Jaskier,” Coën requests finally, and he does, summing it up quickly.

Somehow, he also ends up going with the Witcher to check it out. It seems like he has a thing for danger, following a Witcher after Witcher right into the monster.

It takes Coën just a little time and effort to dispatch of the downers and Jaskier watches from a nearby rock. This Witcher works differently, using more magic, more elaborate Signs. More like a sorcerer than a Witcher, but there are grace and power in it. The whole setting just begs for a story, so Jaskier takes out his new notebook and a quill and starts writing.

He titles it The Dance of a Griffin and performs it the very same night in an inn, where they go to drink to celebrate.

Predictably, people love it and the next day half of the city is humming or singing a verse. It makes Jasskier smile. He likes bringing people something to remember and also make them maybe fear Witchers a little less. Besides, Coën seems like a good man, more eager to converse or share a joke with.

He’s quite pleasant to be around, so when the Witcher asks to come with him, Jaskier agrees.

In spite of everything, he thrives on the road, meeting new people and singing colourized stories about brave heroes and witty bards.

This time, he takes a horse too, because his feet hurt and it’s easier to have two horses than just one. Coën’s horse is all black and called Hyacinth and Jaskier laughs until he cries when he hears it.

“Tell me, how come you’re not as much of a silent brute as Geralt?” he asks one day on a road, strumming on his lute.

“I’m from a different school. More politics, more manners. Less...general coldness,” Coën almost jokes, making Jaskier snort.

“It is nice to have a companion that will actually answer a question with a full word,” Jaskier agrees and then gets distracted by the sun shining on a nearby tree.

He talks even more than he did with Geralt, but when he asks for an opinion, Coën actually answers. Jaskier makes two songs in less than a week and performs them in the inns they visit, and before he knows, full 2 months have passed since they left Oxeunfurt.

Geralt is more of an afterthought now, a painful, bloody one, but at the back of his mind. Jaskier carefully doesn’t note down any new verses for any ballad about the White Wolf, instead, focusing on the Charming Griffin. It’s a fitting name and Coën even gives him a small smile when Jaskier comes up with it.

“How come we never meet Geralt?” Jaskier asks finally. “Not that I’m complaining, not at all,” he hurries to add, “but it is quite strange that we just travel the continent and not even hear about him.”

Coën looks at him and shrugs. “I made sure not to take any road that may bring us closer,” he admits. “Two Witchers at once place on the Path is never a good idea, and I know it will be..difficult for you, elf. There are monsters in every corner of this damned continent.”

Jaskier laughs, a bit choked up, and nods. They don’t mention it again.

“Why don’t you use a bow?”

This time Coën is the one to ask a question and Jaskier is so surprised that he hits a wrong note and almost drops his lute.

“Excuse me?” he asks, blinking at the Witcher.

“You’re an elf, and not to generalize, but elves are good archers,” the Witcher explains. “But you carry no bow with you.”

He shrugs. “I much prefer strings on my lute than on a bow,” Jaskier mutters.

“I can see that,” Coën agrees, before growing more serious. “I am no Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier. I’m not as good as him, and I won’t be able to always protect you.”

He says it in a matter of fact way as if it’s obvious that Geralt is the best. Something in Jaskier’s chest squeezes and he forces himself to think.

“I won’t be a burden,” he promises fiercely, but before he can move, there’s a big hand on his arm. Jaskier looks up, surprised, and meets Coën’s blazing eyes.

“You’re not a burden,” he says quietly. “You’re my friend and I worry. I will worry less if you have a weapon.”

Jaskier is stunned for a second. 

He can’t remember the last time someone called him their friend, and a Witcher no less. 10 years of travelling with Geralt and the man still denied their friendship, but here is Coën calling them friends after only 8 months.

The bard swallows heavily and nods. “I’ll get myself a bow, then,” he promises, this time more cheerfully. “But I warn you, Witcher, I haven’t used it in quite some time, so sit your ass on the ground and pray not to be hit.”

Coën just chuckles quietly. They buy a bow in the next bigger village and the Witcher wisely sits down under a tree when Jaskier starts to practice, snorting every time he misses or hits himself with a string on the face.

He doesn’t get many chances to use it, but Jaskier has to admit that it’s nice to feel useful and appreciated when he kills one of the drowners that try to sneak up on his new Witcher.

New ballads start emerging, of a Charming Griffin and the archer bard, travelling the continent together and killing monsters.

They spend the winter south, near the coast and Jaskier’s heart clenches when he thinks about what could’ve been. Of his plans to go to the coast with Geralt and maybe confess to his Witcher.

A fool’s dreams.

It’s easier to bear with Coën, as the man talks to him, lets him sing and hum his songs, takes him to the easier hunts. It’s nice to have a friend, after so long.

They hear about the White Wolf sometimes, but then Coël chooses a different road and they never actually meet, strange as it is. Jaskier decides that its Fate aiding him, telling him that the White Wolf is not meant for him.

How funny, and how pointless of advice, when Jaskier’s heart already belongs to the Witcher.

Coën doesn’t mention it when Jaskier grows more melancholic, more silent, and his songs turn sweeter and sadder. He just rides next to him and listens, somehow comforting.

They part ways from time to time, always agreeing to meet in one place of the other. Coën visits his school, as does Jaskier. He gives some lectures, beds pretty people and sings, and then they meet again and Jaskier pesters Coën about details of his adventures.

More and more people start recognizing the Charmin Griffin and Jaskier can see how it makes Coën’s shoulders loosen a bit. It must be hard, being hated and stunned in every village you visit, so he’s happy to help.

They spend 13 years together, on and off, 3 more than Jaskier and Geralt. They’re close. They’re friends and Jaskier feels comfortable with the Witcher. 13 years is not that many in elven years, nor is it in Witcher’s, but that’s still quite a lot of time. 

“Winter is coming,” Coën says one night, both of them pressed close together to hie from the cold.

Jaskier snorts, hands almost inside the fire to warm them. “Thank you, I wouldn’t have noticed,” he teases. “I know I’m not as observant as you, Coën, but please, I’m not that bad. I can feel my bottom freezing, you know.”

Coën ignores him with practised ease but bumps into his shoulder gently. “Maybe it’s time to visit Kaer Morhen.”

He falls silent and looks at the Witcher. “Do it often?”

“From time to time,” the other man answers, which may as well mean ‘once every 20 years’. Jaskier can’t help but smile.

“Will you protect me once they try to throw me out on my ass?” he jokes. “Doubt they’ll appreciate having a bard there, those cold assholes.”

Coën chuckles. “It won’t be that bad, Jaskier, but yes, I will protect you,” he promises.

Jaskier smiles and leans more firmly against the warm Witcher to hide from the cold.

They set off the very next morning because the cold is creeping up on them quite quickly and Kaer Morhen is apparently in the mountains because of course, it is. They don’t take too many contracts on their way, unwilling to lose time, but Jaskier is popular and he makes enough coin to let them sleep at various inns. 

The last stretch of the land is quite long and lonely, though, so Jaskier buys himself an ugly but warm coat and they continue. He pesters his friend with questions the whole time and speaks up the knowledge, storing it in his brain as he can’t write in the cold.

Finally, they arrive at the school, which is more of a ruin actually. Jaskier winces when the huge door opens and stays close to Coën, unwilling to get himself thrown out in the cold.

“Coën,” an older man says, appearing out of nowhere. Jaskier doesn’t jump but it’s a near thing. “And a companion? It’s not a place for humans, you know that.”

“What about an elf?” Jaskier asks before he can stop himself. “Besides, you can’t just throw me out! It’s freezing out there and at least 3 days of ride before the next village!”

Coën rolls his eyes, Jaskier just knows it. “This is Jaskier, an elf bard. He’s my friend.”

As always, the words make him feel warm and Jsskier smiles.

The older Witcher looks at them for a long while, before sighing and nodding. “Get the horses to the stables and come inside.”

Jaskier watches as he leaves and then glances st Coën. “Charming,” he mutters. If this is who raised Geralrt then it’s not so strange that he turned out the way he did.

They leave the horses warm and with plenty of food and only then enter the building. Many parts are broken and ruined and it actually hurts Jaskier’s poetic soul. The fortress has a lot of potential and it’s sad to see it in such a state.

“I won’t cook for you every day,” the older Witcher says. “But you both look like shit and the bard is on the verge of starving, so eat.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes but digs in gratefully. The last stretch of the road wasn’t very fruitful when it came to dinners, so the stew is amazing. 

“Hey, what’s your name actually?” he asks suddenly, perking up. “I can’t keep calling you ‘the old Witcher’ in my head, it’s rude.”

The man stares at him for a long while with eerie golden eyes before snorting. “You’ve got a spirit, bard, that I admit. I’m Vesemir.”

Jaskier nods and offers him a hand to shake. “Well, you know I’m Jaskier, but my name is Julian Alfred Pankratz. I’m an elf.”

Vesemir shakes offered hand and hums, not saying anything else. Jaskier rolls his eyes and finishes his dinner, talking to Coën about the road and the fortress and anything that comes to his mind. His friend listens easily, offering his own opinion from time to time and nodding at good intervals, but Jaskier can feel Vesemir’s eyes boring into his skull.

He ignores it.

The room he gets is empty and kind of cold, but Jaskier makes fire, lays on the bed for 30 minutes shivering, before stalking to Coën’s room and dragging the Witcher back into his room.

“Fuck this castle,” he mutters into the darkness, Coën pressed against his side under the thick blankets. “We’re gonna go and find the biggest fucking elk or bear we can find and skin it for furs. That’s it.”

The Witcher chuckles. “Sure, Jaskier. Sleep.”

Jaskier grumbles but does.

It actually takes them a whole week to find a good, big bear but they (mostly Coën but Jaskier helps!) kill it and bring it to the fortress, where Jaskier adamantly refuses to skin it.

Vesemir watches him with some pity, but Jaskier is good at reading stubborn Witchers so he knows that the old man is amused. They both watch as Coën skins the bear and only then does Jaskier help. He’s an elf and they apparently wear a lot of natural materials, so it’s not terribly hard to kind of prepare the skin.

Vesemir cooks for them, apparently deeming their hunt enough of work, and Jaskier sings for them, a haunting ballad about long-gone seas and ghosts of sea monsters ravaging the lands.

He still sleeps with the Witcher, but his new fur-blanket is closer to being done and he can’t wait to have it.

2 weeks later, when the winter is almost at the door, 2 other Witchers come. To Jaskier’s relief, they’re both unknown to him and he finds out they’re Lambert and Eskel, Geralt’s friends from training.

They look at him with some pity, but Jaskier just glares at them and goes to work on his bear pelt.

That night, the air is tense. Lambert is the one to cook, but he and Eskel appear to have some issue with him, and they glare and huff at him the whole night until he rolls his eyes and goes to the other side of the room to sing. Coën and, surprisingly, Vesemir join him to listen and Jaskier gets lost on the music, trying to ignore the hostile Witchers.

Jaskier finally finishes his pelt and sleeps warm and lone, wrapped in the fur, his lute by his side.

The next day, he really can’t take the looks.

“I say this in the nicest way possible, but what is your problem?” he finally snaps at Eskel and Lambert, who are glaring at him from the side. “I literally didn’t say a word to either of you and yet you seem to have an issue with me. Please, refresh my memory because I do not recall meeting either of you before.”

He’s angry, snappy and tired. Witchers, always so difficult to understand.

“You’re Geralt’s bard,” Lambert finally says, making Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“This again?” he mutters under his breath. “No, I’m not Geralt’s anything, he made that quite clear. I’m Jaskier, a travelling poet, an elf bard, Coën’s friend. Not Geralt’s anything! It’s been 13 years, please let it go.”

They watch him in silence as is the custom here apparently, before nodding. They both leave without saying anything, but the next day Eskel sits next to him at breakfast, so Jaskier counts that as a win.

It’s a different winter than he usually has, but Jaskier quite enjoys himself in the dark fortress. Vesemir isn’t the worst and Lambert turns out to be quite a witty asshole, so they often trade insults over making dinner.

Finally, Geralt comes as well.

Jaskier wakes up quite early, tangled in his blankets and surrounded by sheets of paper, with Coën standing above him, amused.

“Fuck you,” he mutters a the Witcher but lets the man drag him out of the bed and downstairs for breakfast.

Jaskier can feel someone talking, a familiar voice, but he’s still quite sleepy and busy calling Coën names, so he stops dead when he enters the dining hall and sees Geralt.

“Jaskier,” the Witcher says quietly, and fuck, Jaskier missed his voice. His knees grow a bit weak and Coën squeezes his shoulder, bringing him back to reality.

“Geralt,” he replies, voice cold and as indifferent as he can. His heart is actually not racing, but he’s...feeling too much. “What a surprise.”

“I-”

“Excuse me now, I’m quite hungry,” he interrupts Geralt before the man can say anything else and almost runs to the kitchen, Coën hot on his heels.

“What the fuck?” Jaskier gasps once they’re alone, but all his friend can offer him is an apologetic smile.


	2. Geralt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah so apparently it'll be longer because when geralt pines, he PINES. he suffers so prettily too, i couldn't help myself

Geralt watches as Jaskier almost runs away from him, frozen and so so stupid. His heart is making a valiant effort of racing and his palms are sweaty and generally, he feels like a damn maiden with her first love.

He can see Vesemir giving him looks and Lambert is snorting, but all he can think of his Jaskier’s cold voice and the other Witcher’s hand on his shoulder. He wants to growl and make sure everyone knows that the bard is his, but that’s a lie.

Jaskier isn’t his.

Jaskier used to be his, his friend, even if he didn’t want to admit it, his companion. The only person he truly trusted.

Then, Geralt went and destroyed it with a few furious words and some yelling.

13 years later and he still carries all that guilt with him.

Admittedly, it took him almost 3 months to get his head out of his ass and Yennefer, for some reason, helped, but by then the bard was gone, thousands of miles away from him. And Geralt tried to find him, but it seemed like each time he came close, Jaskier was gone again, and by the time Geralt found him again, there were only stories in inns and ballads on the road.

13 long years or wishing he could turn back time or at least get a chance to apologize for his words, for the treatment Jaskier got from him.

13 years to think about how he treated the only person willing to truly trust him with their life. He remembered each time he hit Jaskier, left him alone, again and again, disappeared without a word, insulted absolutely everything the bard did.

Geralt made many mistakes in his life, but hurting Jaskier was probably one of the top 3 ones.

Now, here he is, just a few feet away from him, looking healthy and strong, eyes blazing with fury. He’s not what Geralt expected, but well, he’s been travelling with a Witcher for the past 13 years.

“Strange person, that damned bard is,” Vesemir comments.

“You like him?” Geralt asks, surprised. His mentor shrugs.

“He grows on you.”

“Like mold,” Lambert adds jokingly, but his voice is playful. They actually...like him. Or don’t hate him at any rate and Geralt is shocked.

Jaskier can be loud, he talks too much, whines too much and refuses to get his hands dirty. He sings stupid ballads that Geralt secretly loves and never stays still, but it seems like his fellow Witchers actually like him.

“He’s...something else,” Geralt agrees in a soft voice. It seems like he really had to lose Jaskier to start appreciating him.

When the bard comes back, Coën walks by his side, their shoulders brushing. Jaskier smells like panic and anger and so many other things, and Geralt’s heart aches because he’s the one who did that. He’s the one who hurt Jaskier so much that the man avoided him for 13 years.

He takes a long while to look at the bard when he eats. Jaskier seems determined to ignore Geralt, instead, talking to Coën about one monster or another, something Geralt is very familiar with. The difference is, however, that Coën actually answers. He gives his opinion, teases the bard, corrects the events, and Lambert is listening closely.

Jaskier looks good.

He’s wearing something a bit thicker than normal, still in his favourite blue and purple, but dressed for the weather. His hair is messy, probably because the bard just woke up, thick and as dark as before as if 13 haven’t passed at all. He’s a bit broader too, speaking of years on the road. He looks healthy.

Geralt’s heart jumps again.

“You hurt him,” Vesemir comments suddenly, stunning Geralt further. His mentor has never been the one to comment on anything like that. Jaskier just has that effect on people. “He reeks of anger and pain when someone mentions you, and 13 years have passed. You fucked up good, Geralt.”

“Thank you for reminding me,” Geralt snaps, angry again.

Angry at himself. Always angry at himself. On top of that mountain, he was also angry at himself, at the world, not at Jaskier, but the bard was there; close, and an easy target. He hurt Jaskier to feel better and it disgusts him.

All those years trying to be more than a monster and then he goes and does what only the worst of the worst do - hurting his friend to feel better about himself.

“He looks good, even after 13 years,” he finally says. “Seems like we just parted.”

“Well, what are 13 years compared to the hundreds he has?”

Geralt stops and stares at Vesemir. Hundreds? Humans don’t have that. Jaskier has to be about 40 now, and if he’s lucky, he’ll get maybe 30 more. 40 if the Fate is merciful.

His mentor is now glaring at him. “Haven’t I taught you better?” he asks sharply, glancing at the bard. “He’s an elf, that bard.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything, too stunned. It seems like yet another way in which he failed the bard, failing to even notice that he’s wearing a glamour. He doesn’t smell like an elf, but again he spends a lot of time amongst humans. If he was raised with them, it would explain the lack of an elven disdain for humans in him.

He winces and looks at Jaskier again. He does have that beauty of elves, stunning eyes and beautiful face, long graceful fingers and thick hair. Geralt always knew that Jaskier is handsome, beautiful even, but he denied it again and again, using insults to distance himself.

Seems like his insults worked.

Vesemir leaves to join the others and Geralt stays, watching from afar as Jaskier leans against Coën, laughing and relaxed. The other Witcher welcomes it, shifting his weight so that Jaskier can rest easier, and something twists in Geralt’s stomach.

Jealousy.

Something he shouldn’t feel, but can’t help himself. The bard seems to bring out all the emotions Geralt isn’t supposed to feel, so effortlessly, and his heart isn’t sure what to do with it.

He had almost 13 years to deal with his guilt and love, that damned longing and loneliness, but back then he convinced himself that it wasn’t Jaskier travelling with the ‘Charming Griffin’, just some other brave, stupid bard.

Now, Geralt knows that all of those stories sung all over the continent are about Jaskier and Coën, fighting and spending time together. It makes him want to growl, but Geralt has some self-control left. He doesn’t want to make Jaskier hate him more.

He leaves finally, deciding against food, and goes to his usual room, where everything is exactly as spartan as he left it. Geralt knows that Jaskier’s room isn’t far away, he can smell the bard - chamomile, parchment and forest. It makes his shoulders relax.

Jaskier’s room is probably the opposite of his. Now that he has a horse, a lovely brown one that Geralt saw in the stables, he can carry more stuff and Jaskier always liked surrounding himself with things. He bets that there are papers all over the floor, probably some bottles on the table, dry flowers pressed between his notebook pages, clothes strewn around the room.

It makes him smile.

Geralt stays in his room for quite some time, not hiding, just...gathering himself and resting after a long journey. Yes, that’s what he’s going with.

The smell of food brings him back out, and when he arrives at the kitchen, there seems to be an insult match between Lambert and Jaskier. Geralt doesn’t smell any hostility though, so he sits down and watches. Jaskier seems actually happy, eyes shining and posture confident. 

Coën comes soon enough and Geralt once again has to stop himself from growling at the man. It’s not the other’s Witcher fault that he actually could appreciate what he had from the beginning and be a good friend to the bard. He tries not to wonder if there’s something more between them, especially when Jaskier lights up at the sight of him.

“Coën, go and tell this loon that I did actually kill that kikimora!” the bard calls joyfully, making Geralt’s heart dance.

The other Witcher chuckles but nods. “He did,” he confirms, further stunning Geralt. “I usually make him stay back during dangerous hunts, but he insisted and he shot it in the eye. I was very impressed.”

Jaskier visibly basks in the praise he never got from Geralt, no matter what. Sure, he never killed a kikimora while they were travelling together, but he did so many other things that Geralt always scoffed at. It makes his heart hurt.

“See? I’m not as useless as you think,” the bard says to Lambert, who scoffs.

“So that bow I saw in your room wasn’t just for show, was it?”

Jaskier gasps theatrically, one hand to his chest. Geralt hides a smile in his cup. “My good sir, how could you?! You think I’d haul it all over the continent if I wasn’t using it?”

“One can never know with you, bard,” Lambert says dryly, making Jaskier laugh.

“Hmm, a good point indeed,” he agrees. “But! I’m actually quite good with a bow, quite stunning really. Coën will agree.”

Once again the Witcher nods, a fond look in his eyes. Jealousy burns and burns in Geralt’s chest.

“I will mercifully not mentions all the times you almost shot me,” Coën mutters, fully aware that everyone heard him.

Jaskier throws a potato at him and Coën just takes it with a calm look on his face, before throwing it back.

“I haven’t used a bow for almost 20 years before you asked me to, be reasonable,” the bard whines. “Besides, I told you to sit down and protect your lovely bottom.”

“Oh. Oh really? You usually let strangers rub chamomile onto your lovely bottom?” Geralt hears in his memory. Back then, he baulked at calling Jaskier a friend, too afraid of his own feelings, but now it’s a treasured memory.

It hurts that Coën and Jaskier share similar ones, ones that are probably much more joyful for the bard. 

“Care to share your skill with the others?” Eskel asks, entering the kitchen.

Jaskier shrugs, suddenly bashful, before his eyes light up with humour. “Why of course, my dear Witcher,” he agrees. “Though I doubt I’m even a fraction as good as any of you.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, cariad, you’re quite skilled,” Coën says gently, making Jaskier preen once again.

In such a short conversation the other Witcher managed to compliment Jaskier at least 3 times, and that’s 3 times more than Geralt did in the 10 years that they’ve known each other. He’s absurdly jealous, but all he has to blame is himself. It’s not so strange that Jaskier would travel with someone who truly appreciates him and isn’t afraid to show it.

Geralt keeps listening though, because he missed Jaskier like crazy, missed him with every fibre of his being, and even being in the same room as the bard is enough to make him feel better. Soothe the beast inside.

Finally, the dinner is ready and they sit together at the big table. Geralt doesn’t fail to notice how Jaskier chose a seat that’s furthest away from him, how he carefully ignores Geralt.

It hurts more than an arrow to the side, but he takes it in silence as the others converse.

He watches as Jaskier drags the others into a conversation, Coën being the one to answer the most, but Lambert is a close second. Jaskier thrives under the attention, eyes bright and hands moving around as he spins a tale of a water monster near the coast and Geralt aches.

To know that Coën and Jaskier actually visited the coast that Jaskier wanted to see with Geralt, to know that they have good memories of that time, spent together… It makes Geralt physically ache, but that’s his punishment and he will take it.

“I don’t think Coën ever stank as badly as he did back then,” Jaskier chuckles, elbowing the Witcher in the side. “Apparently, saltwater mud is even worse than the sweet water one. A man learns every day.”

“I also remember you refusing to enter the water with me, Jaskier,” Coën says, making the others smirk. “You stood there and helpfully described where that damned serpent was, while I was struggling to breathe.”

“Oh, now see who’s being overdramatic!” Jaskier calls, almost standing. “It wasn’t that bad, Coën, you were fine. A bit stinky and dirty, but fine.”

“Hmm.”

It continues like that the whole dinner and Geralt has to force himself to eat. It’s strange, to hear about Jaskier’s adventures and not be able to remember a single one. To know he’s no longer the only one who travelled with the bard, shared the late nights and early mornings with him.

“Your turn, oh White Wolf,” Eskel says suddenly, bringing him into a conversation. Geralt carefully doesn’t squirm. “What’s the worst one you fought, hmm?”

“A werewolf pack,” he says simply, curt as always. “A bloody, smelly mess.”

Jaskier scoffs under his breath but doesn’t ask for details, and neither does anybody else. Geralt expected that from his fellow Witchers, but Jaskier’s indifference hurts. Geralt knows he has no right to demand any attention from the man at whom he yelled that he wishes that destiny would take him away, but it still hurts.

He’s even more sullen through the rest of the dinner, and he watches as the bard leaves with Coën behind him, muttering something about new ballads and needing an opinion.

Geralt is left alone with Lambert and Eskel and were he anyone else, he’d leave.

“Oh, you fucked up good,” Lamber chuckles, leaning against the table. Geralt grunts. “He pestered me and Eskel for details all day for at least 3 days until we told him something, but he didn’t even look at you.”

“What the hell did you do?” Eskel asks, cold but curious.

Geralt thinks for a while, before sighing. “I was unfair,” he says, getting two raised eyebrows in return. “I had a shitty day and I blamed him for my own mistakes. I told him that if life could give me one blessing, it would be to take him off my hands.”

The silence that falls after that is heavy and full of tension. He can feel the others’ eyes on him, but he stubbornly refuses to look.

“Eloquent as ever,” Eskel snorts finally, making Lambert chuckle. “He can be a bit annoying, but it’s not that bad.”

“He’s kind of funny, actually,” Lambert admits. “Quick mouth and an even quicker mind.”

Lambert always had the tendency to say too much to people, snipe at them, so having Jaskier here, who usually gave as good as he got must be entertaining to the Witcher. Geralt isn’t even surprised that they like him.

The bard is quite likeable.

“I know,” he says heavily. “It was wrong of me.”

“Well, at least apologize,” Eskel tells him. “You travelled together for 10 years, he’s worth breaking an unspoken Witcher law for.”

“First I have to get close to him” Geralt snorts. “He avoids me like the plague.”

“Can’t say I blame him,” Lambert snorts. “Coën is sweet as fuck on him, and the bard eats it up. They seem to have spent a lot of time together in those 13 years.”

“I know!” he growls, suddenly angry again. “I have ears too, I know those fucking songs.”

“Ah yes, the Charming Griffin and his archer bard,” Eskel hums. “They’re catchy.”

He stands up abruptly and leaves the kitchen, accompanied by his fellow Witchers’ mocking laughter. He really hates them, mostly because they’re right.

The songs are catchy and Geralt heard the whole damn world singing them, praising the Griffin and mooning over the bard. It doesn’t hurt that Coën is much more...pleasant than him.

As Geralt walks to his room, he hears Jaskier’s voice again, this time singing something. It’s a light tune about a hero on a white horse, which means it’s about Lambert. He creeps closer to the door, as it’s not closed all the way, and peers into the room.

Jaskier is leaning against the side of the fireplace, sitting on the floor next to his notes, a lute in his hands. Coën is seated on the bed, relaxed and comfortable and their combined scent assaults Geralt’s nose. He stifles a growl but the other Witcher hears him and looks up.

Their eyes meet, and Geralt can see the triumph in the other man’s eyes. Coën knows that Geralt is hurting, and he enjoys it. Probably because he knows that Jaskier is his now, his bard, companion, maybe even a lover. 13 years together is a long time, as Coën is quite sweet on the bard.

“Sunflower, hmm, no more like a dandelion, or…” Jaskier trails off, catching Coën’s attention. “No, that’s wrong.”

“A poppy,” the Witcher suggest, making the bard light up. “They grow in young forests and it rhymes.”

“Yes, it does!” Jaskier calls happily, already scribbling on a paper. Geralt’s heart clenches and he leaves, unwilling to listen to the bard’s praises.

He never actually voiced his opinion when asked. Jaskier often asked for his opinion, but Geralt always told him to shut up or just stayed silent, leaving the bard to his own devices. Coën doesn’t seem to have the same problem, offering advice, listening attentively to what Jaskier is composing.

It’s those little things that are just as important as the big ones.

The fact that Coën really, truly cares and shows it. Maybe not in a very romantic, or grand way that Jaskier prefers, but he praises the bard, gives advice, listens and answers. Treats Jaskier like a human being, not an irritating pest.

Geralt has only himself to blame, but it’s easy to be angry at Coën for being so damn perfect. Yes, Geralt is a better Witcher, a better fighter, but Coën is a better person.

Sometimes, especially when it comes to relationships, that’s more than enough.

He throws himself on the bed and closes his eyes, suddenly more tired than he can remember feeling. Emotions are exhausting, guilt and jealousy even more so, and the ease with which Jaskier ignores him hurts more than fire.

Geralt knows he didn’t even try, not really, not yet, and he will, but it is quite hard to breathe when the bard ignores him the whole time. It hurts even more, that usually, it was the other way around, that usually, it was Geralt who either ignored or insulted Jaskier. Jaskier, who just took it, never wavering, never getting tired. Up until Geralt went and ruined it all.

Now, he may not be able to fix all of his mistakes, but he will damn well try.

With that determination, he walks outside, to where the rest are, Coën dressed for a hunt, his horse ready. Jaskier is standing on a small boulder, arms crossed in front of his chest, shaking his head.

“I am not going anywhere, Coën!” the bard whines. “There are 5 damn Witchers in this castle, and I will not be the one to get out in this storm to hunt. Be fucking Witchers and hunt yourselves.”

This is such a Jaskier thing to do that Geralt smiles. He really missed the bard and now seeing him, being close to him, is almost enough. Almost.

“Jaskier,” the other Witcher grumbles, but his voice is soft. “It’s not that bad.”

“Tell that to my freezing bottom, Witcher,” Jaskier snaps. “Come on, off you go! Take Lambert with you, or something, he seems energetic. I will dutifully wait here and bother Eskel.”

Finally, Coën gives up, and he and Lambert ride out into the snow. Jaskier is watching all of that looking very satisfied.

“You’re not that cold,” Vesemir speaks up from behind the bard, making him jump a bit.

Even Geralt can see the mischief in his eyes as the man shrugs. “No, not really, but I still don’t want to be out in the snow. I have to pick my battles,” Jaskier laughs. “He’ll bother me again in a few days, and then I’ll have to go.”

Vesemir just shakes his head and goes back inside, and then somehow, they’re left alone. Geralt can’t remember ever being more nervous.

Slowly, he approaches Jaskier and tries not to be hurt when the man flinches.

“Jaskier,” he says, as gently as he can, listening for the other man’s heartbeat. It’s racing, but Jaskier doesn’t smell like nerves. “Can we-” Geralt breaks off, thinking if this really is what he wants to say. “Can you listen to me?”

The bard is standing with his back to Geralt, but he can feel him thinking. Eventually, the other man deflates and nods, half-turning to Geralt.

Jaskier’s eyes are still cold, but now he just looks tired. “Come on,” he says and starts walking.

Geralt follows and the air is tense, and his heart is racing (well, as much as Witcher’s heart can race) and he really can’t remember being nervous. Jaskier’s fast heartbeat should make him feel better, but it really doesn’t. Now they’re both nervous.

They enter the room but Jaskier doesn’t sit down. Instead, he walks to the window and leans against him, looking tired and defeated. Geralt aches with the knowledge that he is the one responsible for it.

“Well? Speak, Geralt,” Jaskier requests.

He swallows and tries to think back to all the things he wanted to say to the bard. A lifetime won’t be enough to say it all, but Geralt can try today.

“I’m sorry,” he says, trying to hide how shaky his voice is. Jaskier stays quiet, but he continues. “Not just for the mountaintop, though for that too. For...every way I wronged you, Jaskier.”

“Quite a few of them,” the bard snorts bitterly, making Geralt flinch.

“I know. I had a long time to remember and categorize each one,” he admits. “And I’m not a poet like you, so I don’t know how to say it other than I’m sorry. I treated you like dirt because I was afraid of having a friend and I never called you that, even if that’s what you were. What you still are.”

It’s quiet for a second. Jaskier still isn’t saying anything, his heart racing and Geralt slides down on the bed, suddenly just as tired as the bard. The room smells like Jaskier and Coën, and he carefully doesn’t think about it, least he growls. It’s not his business, what Jaskier does, not anymore.

“I’m sorry I hit you, again and again, just because I could. It was cruel of me, and I’m...very ashamed of myself. I don’t know how could you stand it, being treated like that by me. I refused to call you a friend, and I kept leaving you whenever it felt like you were becoming too close to me like I started caring too much.”

“As if it helped,” Geralt adds bitterly, now on a roll. He doesn’t like talking, but Jaskier deserves his every effort. He deserves more than Geralt can give him, and he would give him the world. “I was scared of my own feelings and I treated you badly because of it, and I’m sorry. I know it doesn’t make it okay, nothing does but know that I’m ashamed of the way I behaved and I want t-to, uh, do better. If you’ll let me.”

The not formed question hangs in the air, and Geralt is tense, all senses sharpened. Every second is like agony, like a blade burying in his side, but he won’t hurry the bard.

There’s a rustle and when Geralt raises his head, Jaskier is standing in front of him. His blue eyes are darkened by sadness and his hands are shaking, and Geralt really wants to hold them in his own.

He doesn’t move from his spot.

“It’s good to hear you say it,” Jaskier says finally, voice just as rough as Geralt’s. He seems to be choking down tears. “I waited a long time, but then again I didn’t want to see you,” the bard laughs without humour. Geralt flinches again, and Jaskier’s eyes soften just a bit. “I’m glad we met, Geralt, even if by chance. I didn’t realize how much it was hurting me to keep being angry at you, keep it all festering inside.”

“I’m sorry I was the cause of that,” Geralt whispers into the fragile atmosphere between them, “I really missed you, Jaskier, and I know you probably don’t ca-”

“I missed you too,” Jaskier interrupts him before he can finish. His smile is small a still a bit fragile, but Geralt’s heart still jumps. “I hated you for a long time, but I missed you as well. I really am glad we met.”

Geralt is a bit overwhelmed for a second, but then he remembers the rest of what he wanted to say. “I won’t ask you to forgive me, not like that,” he begins, “but will you let me earn that forgiveness? Over this winter. Please.”

This time, the bard laughs and tugs Gertalt up, until he can wrap his arms around the Witcher and hold him close. They’re both trembling and Geralt freezes, but then his brain catches up and he hastily returns the embrace.

Jaskier chuckles into his neck, making Geralt shiver, so he hides his face in the other man’s hair and breathes him in. It’s the first time in 13 he can breathe in the sweet, familiar scent of trust and home. Something he almost broke, what he did break, but what he’ll fight his hardest to fix. 

“I’m so so sorry, Jaskier. I’ll do better,” he promises in a broken voice.

The bard pulls away just to look him in the eyes, and they’re still sad, still a bit broken, but there’s more light in them again. They look more like the ones that haunted Geralt’s dreams for 13 years. 

“I know, Geralt,” he says calmly. “I don’t trust you like I used to, I won’t lie, but you’re a good man, and I want to trust you like that again. We have a whole winter to work on it, and who knows what the future will bring?”

This time, Geralt doesn’t fight his smile and the answering one from Jaskier is more than he had hoped, back on the road, dreaming of his bard.


	3. Geralt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah yes it got away from me somehow???

Geralt walks in a daze for the rest of the day. Somehow, in less than a day he managed to actually apologize to Jaskier and then got to hold the man in his arms, warm and smiling against his neck. **  
**

He has to work very hard not to smile, yet every time Jaskier look at him, his resolve breaks down. It always leaves Jaskier beaming, so Geralt just avoids his eyes and fights to make his heart slow down. Being the reason for the bard’s smile is just too much for his poor, blackened heart to bear.

When Coën and Lambert come back, Jaskier just jumps around him, poking and talking and the Witcher takes it with a smile and a gentle word. Geralt really is jealous of the man’s ability to just...be nice to Jaskier. Be kind and appreciate him openly.

It’s something he has to work on, what he wants to work on, and seeing another Witcher just...do it is grating on his nerves.

Then, Jaskier glances at him with a smile and everything melts away. Geralt always returns his smile and pretends not to notice how Lambert and Eskel are making fun of him. He really doesn’t give a single fuck, because Jaskier is looking at him and beaming and he finally feels like he has a chance at making it all right again.

His good mood doesn’t fade even in the evening when Jaskier leans against Coën and starts strumming on his lute. Yes, Geralt is jealous and he desperately wants to be in the other Witcher’s place, but progress doesn’t come easy like that.

He’ll have to work to have this.

This time, Geralt just closes his eyes and lets the voice he missed so much wash over him. The bard sings about the mountains and the flowers and a dragon and Geralt smiles, content with his life finally. He wasted 13 years guilty and lonely, and now he has the whole winter to make things right.

They don’t immediately start talking. Jaskier is still unsure, and Geralt doesn’t want to push, but sometimes the bard sits with him and Geralt quietly tells him of his adventures. Jaskier listens with eyes bright as always and asks questions that Geralt takes care to answer.

He had 13 years of that damned silence, and every question is like a blessing.

The apology is still on his tongue whenever he looks at the bard, and Geralt sometimes includes himself and says it again. Every time, Jaskier looks at him softly.

One time, he lays a gentle hand on the Witcher’s own scarred one and squeezes. “Geralt, I know,” he whispers. “I can see it in your eyes, my dear Witcher.” Geralt resolutely ignores how the endearment makes his heart jump. “I can’t say that I forgive you yet, but it’s not impossible to earn. Don’t torture yourself.”

Even after so many years, Jaskier knows him better than anyone in the world. It’s a bit scary, being seen like that, but Geralt’s old black heart blooms with love.

They sit like that for a long while and Jaskier starts to hum a song, a bit sad but also hopeful and soft and sweet. Geralt smiles when he hears it overwhelmed with love once again. He can tell this is about them somehow. About their journey. And if Jaskier can make it sound so full of hope and light, then Geralt can try to make it a reality.

Geralt sits with him during breakfast and Jaskier visits him whenever he goes to tend to Roach. The Witcher meets Jaskier’s horse, Dandelion, and chuckles at the name pretending not to notice how the sound of it makes Jaskier light up.

They spend more time together, not a lot, not like they used to during their travels, but it’s still so much more than Geralt got in the last 13 years and he falls asleep with a smile on his face.

“How come you never told me you were an elf?” Geralt asks one day while they’re sitting near a big window, watching the snow fall outside.

Jaskier shrugs and sends him a small smile. “I thought you knew, honestly,” he admits. “We travelled for 10 years together, on and off as it were, and I never tried to hide that I didn’t age.”

“I just didn’t care to look,” Geralt finishes for him and gets hit for his trouble.

“Oh, don’t be melodramatic, Geralt, I think it’s just the case of your stupidity,” the bard teases, making him smile and roll his eyes.

Somehow, that gentle teasing makes the hurt easier to bare.

Jaskier still spends a lot of time with Coën, and Geralt knows that they sleep together. He can smell it on them the next morning, and he has to fight very hard not to snap at anyone. It’s not their fault that he’s stupid, jealous and in love.

The bard seems obvious to his struggle, sending him smiles even as he’s almost sprawled on Coën’s lap, chattering about one thing or another.

As for the Witcher, he doesn’t seem to mind that he and Jaskier are getting closer.

Geralt is surprised to realize that Coën is actually pretty happy with the fact that Geralt apologised and that Jaskier speaks to him now. There’s no jealousy there, no anger in his smell and fuck, it only makes Geralt angrier.

The man really is perfect.

If Jaskier was his, Geralt would be much more possessive and worried about another in his presence. Maybe that’s just his own insecurity talking, but he could never be so comfortable. He trusts Jaskier, with his damn life, but the thought of someone else touching his bard…

Geralt stops cold and shakes his head. Jaskier isn’t his. Isn’t his anything, not even a friend. He made sure of that, and a few weeks of Geralt trying to be better won’t magically improve that.

Still, he doesn’t give up, because Jaskier is more than worth it.

He’s surprised how easy it is to slip into a more...attentive and caring role. He’s still on the side, not getting too close, but Jaskier doesn’t run from him anymore, and sometimes even sits close to babble about something.

The first time Geralt asks a question about the thing he’s talking about, Jaskier lights up like a damn star, all bright and happy and launches into an explanation. It’s endearing instead of irritating and Geralt makes himself comfortable to listen.

Geralt tells Jaskier of his adventures in those 13 years apart and carefully doesn’t mention just how lonely and quiet they were. Jaskier listens and scribbles in his notebook and sometimes Geralt catches him drawing, so he sits closer and corrects any mistakes in the monsters.

Jaskier welcomes it easily, oftentimes ending up with 3 different versions of the same beast because “That one is more poetic, Geralt, it's not just about the truth!”. He’s not sure why the bard needs pictures, but his drawings are quite beautiful and Geralt is happy to help.

The explanation comes soon enough.

“Oh, I’ve been planning to write chronicles,” Jaskier says one dinner when Lambert asks him why does he pester everyone for details about everything. “Not just about the Witchers, but mostly about them, yes. You’ll be the characters, of course, with your names and everything, and I need everything to be accurate.”

“Most of what you write isn’t accurate,” Geralt feels the need to point out and gets a bright smile.

“Of course it isn’t, but it doesn’t matter. The dates need to match, the general areas of where certain monsters are, how to kill them, all of that. How did the battle go? That’s my artistic licence.”

The bard seems so satisfied with himself that Geralt has to smile. And well, he may not have a gift for storytelling but he’s a walking textbook about monsters, so he eagerly lets Jaskier use that.

Together, they fill notebook after notebook in the long, dark days in the fortress and Geralt knows that Vesemir is leaving him alone just because he feels sorry for him.

Eventually, they can’t avoid their duties and they find themselves going on a hunt. Thankfully, it’s not snowing so Geralt isn’t too concerned about Jaskier, but he is curious. The bard never helped him hunt, but apparently, he’s not a stranger to it and Geralt wants to witness it first-hand.

The bard has dressed appropriately, his usual colours a bit muted but he doesn’t look happy about it. 

“Just because you’re all Witchers doesn’t mean I shouldn’t look my best!” he announces while gathering his arrows, a bow already on his shoulder.

It’s a thing of beauty, complicated and sturdy, yet sleek. Geralt knows it must’ve cost a good coin to get.

Jaskier notices him staring and shots him a grin. “I used one winter to work at the university, aside from singing in the taverns and I managed to buy this beauty,” he explains fondly. “Easily the most expensive thing I own but very much worth it. I appreciate that it doesn’t have to be ugly to be useful.”

Geralt hides a smile at the very Jaskier-esque answer and hops on Roach. Jaskier’s horse, Dandelion, is already there and soon they’re riding out into the wilderness.

He’s not overly concerned with wolves, but he’s still on a lookout while trying to steal glances at Jaskier. This Jaskier is the one Geralt doesn’t know, but he’s not a total stranger. His eyes are still bright and there’s a smile on his face, even as he sits atop a horse and holds a bow loosely.

Jaskier doesn’t try to talk, but his eyes are expressive enough and Geralt watches in pleasure as they light up at the sight of the forest in the winter. He looks ethereal in the snow, surrounded by eerie silence and bare trees, unusually focused. For the first time, Geralt can see the elf in him, an archer atop of a horse, hunting in the forest.

It’s not the Jaskier he knows, but maybe that’s a part of him that just wasn’t available to him. He’s eager to learn more.

They don’t speak much as they track a deer but the moment it’s down, Jaskier is back to his usual babble. Geralt grunts and gives an occasional reply as he hoists the animal onto Roach and they return.

Jaskier touches trees on his way back, gathering snow and throwing it at Geralt, laughing when it gets stuck in his hair. Geralt really shouldn’t, but he throws some back, almost making the bard fall off of his horse.

They come back covered in snow and snorting like children. Vesemir glares at them, but Geralt doesn’t really care. Everyone in this fortress knows that Witchers do actually have emotions, so why not enjoy themselves a bit before they’re back on the Path?

Jaskier almost runs back inside, leaving Geralt to take care of the deer, but Coën tells him to leave the skin in one piece and the bard will do something with it.

That’s how he finds himself that evening - keeping Jaskier company as he slowly takes care of the skin and fur, probably about to make another blanket with it. Geralt knows that Jaskier is often cold in Kaer Morhen, and the deer is quite beautiful, with white spots and gently brown fur.

“How’s Yennefer?” the bard asks suddenly, startling Geralt. He knows that Jaskier never liked her, so it’s a surprise to hear him ask, but…

“No idea,” Geralt replies truthfully. “Haven’t talked to her in 3 years.”

Jaskier looks at him, surprised. “Don’t you, well, love her?”

There’s something strange in the other man’s voice, but Geralt isn’t really sure what it means. He makes note of it in his mind, though.

“No,” he says curtly, but gently. “She’s...intense. Too intense. Like fire, like burning. We’re too alike.”

Jaskier snorts, sending him a smile. “Yes, you can say that. I really thought you’ll be together.”

Geralt shrugs. “No. I don’t love her. She doesn’t love me. We meet sometimes. On the road.”

Longer sentences still aren’t something he’s used to, but Jaskier doesn’t seem to need them. The bard is content to have an answer to his questions.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, but Geralt shrugs again.

“I’m not. It is what it is.”

No more is said about Yennefer of Vengerberg. It doesn’t bother Geralt.

Days continue like that, similar in their greyness and the only notable moments are those spent with Jaskier.

Usually, he can find the bard in the library, with the fireplace roaring. Coën is there sometimes, not always, and when he’s not, Geralt joins Jaskier, listening to him compose. A few times he even gives his opinion, accompanied by a bright smile.

It’s a week after the hunt that Jaskier finds him, holding something in his arms, looking excited.

“I made you a cloak!” he says brightly, thrusting the thing at Geralt.

He takes it with gentle, almost reverent hands and his breathing stops when he sees the cloak. It’s made out of the deerskin that they got. It’s not the most intricate one, but Geralt knows he’s going to treasure it more than anything.

Jaskier is looking at him, a bit nervous and his heart is racing, so Geralt takes a deep breath and pulls the bard into a hug.

He gets a surprised squeak but Jaskier quickly melts into him, smiling against Geralt’s neck. “I take it you like it?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Geralt can’t remember the last time he got something just because. Not as a thank, not as a trade, just a gift, with no strings attached. This one is from Jaskier, the man he loves, and it’s the most precious gift of them all.

At first, he’s not sure whether to wear it or not, afraid to ruin it, but Geralt can’t really help himself when it comes to Jaskier, and the next day he shows up wearing it to breakfast. Jaskier is preening and even blushing a bit and Geralt’s heart is racing with pleasure. He’s the one who made the bard look like that!

They spend many quiet nights together, just the two of them alone.

“What about Coën?” Geralt asks one night, reluctant but curious. Aren’t they together?

“I spent the last 13 years with him, Geralt, on and off, and I haven’t seen you at all!” Jaskier announces. “I missed you, and him I can draw from memory.”

“And me you can’t?” he asks before he can stop himself.

Jaskier gives him a small, shy smile and shrugs bashfully. “I can,” he admits as if he’s ashamed of it.

“Do you?”

He’s not sure what makes him ask the question, but then it’s too late to take it back. Jaskier startles but then reaches for his notebook.

He opens it on one side and shows Geralt a portrait of him. The Witcher swallows. In the picture, he’s much more...gentle and beautiful than he normally sees himself. Than people see him. His eyes are soft, somehow, and he isn’t frowning or growling, just...passive. A bit soft.

Geralt quite likes that version of himself.

“I drew it a few days ago,” the bard admits. “I didn’t want to have any mention of you in my new notebooks, but… there’s a difference between you then and you now.”

The admission hurts, but he understands. If Jaskier tried to forget him or let go of him, it’s no wonder that he didn’t want to have any reminder of Geralt. But it feels good to know that he’s doing better now, that Jaskier wants him in his notes now.

Took his time to draw him, even after everything that happened. 

“I want to be better,” he says almost without noticing. Jaskier’s eyes are wide and very very warm. “Someone who you’d like to call your friend.”

Geralt carefully doesn’t mention how he sometimes wishes they could be more than friends, how he used to think about it even before the mountaintop and the dragon. It’s nor the time nor a place for confessions like this.

You’re already better,” James assures with a bright smile. “Oh, the ballads I can write about you, Geralt, about your smile and eyes and kindness...I can’t wait.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, not mentioning how much he wishes to have Jaskier back by his side, singing and blabbering and generally being a friend.

He doesn’t mention it, not even in the long days during which they grow closer. It’s different than it used to be, and Geralt is strangely glad. Their relationship is balanced now, with both parties giving, not just Jaskier trying to make Geralt talk and Geralt insulting the other man. They’re proper friends.

Jaskier is the first person to hear more about Geralt’s childhood, and the Witcher can see how his friend struggles to tell him about his own home and family. They share secrets now, deep dark secrets that they’ve been carrying with each other for decades, and it makes things easier somehow.

Geralt understands why he was so scared of having friends, of bringing people with him, but now he thinks it was quite stupid of him. A burden shared, a burden halved.

“Why the road?” Geralt asks randomly one day, brushing Roach with Jaskier sitting on the stool and watching him.

It’s a testament to how well Jaskier knows it, as the bard doesn’t ask for clarification, just hums. “Well, I was always a wild soul, or so my mother used to tell me. There are so many rules to being a highborn son - study, be proper, marry who we chose for you, have children, manage the land, don’t be stupid, don’t sing, don’t have fun… It’s suffocating,” Jaskier groans. “Besides, how could I be as cruel as to spare the world the beauty of my voice and face? I’m blessing the whole continent with my presence, instead of sitting in my mansion in some forest and hating my wife.”

“You’re prepared to hate your wife?”

Jaskier snorts again, throwing some hay at Geralt’s head. “Not now, you oaf!” he yells with a laugh. “Just...back then. I hated all the girls they brought, and I thought that all women were so...bland and proper. Until I hit the road, of course.”

The bard’s smirk is downright dirty and Geralt rolls his eyes, ignoring how his stomach is clenching at the thought of Jaskier with some woman. Or anyone for that matter.

Geralt can deny it all he wants, but deep inside he knows that he’s long ago claimed Jaskier as his, no matter how unfair and undeserved it is now.

“Apparently, I much prefer travelling the world with Witchers,” Jaskier snickers.

“You like danger,” Geralt points out dryly.

“No, I hate danger,” Jaskier corrects brightly. “I’m never in danger when I have a Witcher protecting me, am I?”

“Do you even need to be protected?” he asks, honestly curious. He’s not sure how old Jaskier is, but he has to be at least 100 years old by this point. He didn’t always have a protector on his travels and he’s still alive.

Jaskier gives him a sly look, shrugging. “I’m not about to take on a kikimora on my own, or a werewolf, but I can deal with smaller things. I got lazy while travelling with you.”

“Why?”

Jaskier snorts again, almost laying down on the stool somehow. “It was nice, having someone to protect me and watch out for me,” he admits. “I’ve been alone for a long time before finding you, and it was kind of nice that someone else was taking care of the irritating things during travel.”

“I spoiled you, hm?”

Almost as soon as he asks the question, Geralt wants to take it back. If anything, he made sure that Jaskier was starved for attention, affection and a real friend. He certainly didn’t spoil him. The bard, however, smirks and nods.

“Kind of, yes. I didn’t have to touch my bow in almost 10 years thanks to you, so that was nice. Though I did kind of miss it, at some point, and it’s always fun to shoot sharp things at people.”

“I never thought that you with a bow would be a good idea,” Geralt mutters. “I was wrong.”

“I have hidden depths,” Jaskier gasps dramatically, clearly playing it, but Geralt has to agree. 

10 years together and he never really knew the bard. There’s a lot he still doesn’t know, so he is a bit of an enigma. Afraid of the monsters, bu fearless in the face on an angry Witcher, loud but with serious depth in his eyes, always talking bit never really saying anything important.

Geralt really wants to figure out the puzzle that is Jaskier.

Maybe he’ll even get a chance because as weeks go by and the winter really takes hold, they grow closer and closer. Geralt even sits with Jaskier when Coën is there. He’s still curious about the relationship between the two of them because they smell faintly of each other but never enough to say that they’re definitively together. It’s confusing, up until Coën clears it out.

“He’s my friend,” the other Witchers says while they’re watching Jaskier get lost in the music. “Just a friend.”

Geralt glances at him but stays silent.

“I don’t feel the desire to court or bed him. Or anyone for that matter,” Coën continues. “He’s my friend and I do care for him a lot, probably more than I ever cared about anyone, but he never became more and never will.”

“Why are you telling me that?” Geralt feels the need to ask.

Coën gives him a look that Vesemir often used to - as if he asked the dumbest question in the world and he should be ashamed of himself.

“Don’t be stupid again,” the Witcher mutters. “He waited a long time for you.”

“He hated me for 13 years,” Geralrt points out.

“Oh, hate rarely walks alone these days,” Coën says as if he’s making any sense, before leaving.

Geralt has absolutely no idea what did he mean. Though feeling stupid when it comes to Jaskier is not a new feeling at all.

Even 3 weeks later, the spring almost peeking through the cold, Geralt has no idea what Coën meant, but he doesn’t have time to ponder that because Jaskier is sick.

Properly sick too, with fever and sweating and coughing up blood and Geralt feels like he’s about to die from worrying so much.

They’re all gathered in the healing room, with Vesemir leaning over the bard, muttering something under his breath that Geralt doesn’t have the energy to listen to. All of his attention is focused on Jaskier and his heavy, rattling breath and galloping heartbeat.

Coën is almost as worried as him, hovering over Vesemir, eyes stormy but face stony. Geralt can relate.

Finally, Vesemir stands up, looking much surer. “It’s nothing mysterious,” he says. “A case of holding a glamour for too long. He drops the glamour, 5 to 6 days pass, he’ll be fine.”

Geralt lets out a heavy breath of relief and sees Coën wincing.

“Yes, he was supposed to drop it once we came here, but probably Lambert and Eskel growling at him made him reluctant and then he forgot. Stupid man,” he mutters fondly.

And yes, Geralt was so used to seeing Jaskier as a human that he almost forgot that it was the glamour that kept that illusion. He cursed himself for not noticing and promised himself to fo better if they were to spend more time together.

Coën looked at him in concept for a while, before nodding to himself. “Geralt, why don’t you take care of him? I have some things to do, and it’ll be good for him to be cared for by someone else.”

Without waiting for an answer, Coën leaves, along with everyone else and there’s just Geralt and a still Jaskier. He knows what he has to do, logically, but his legs are still weak when he comes closer to the bed and sits down.

“Jaskier,” he says quietly, one big hand covering the side of Jaaskier’s neck. 

The bard coughs a few times again, but Geralt can see his eyelids fluttering and then there are those gorgeous blue eyes, hazy with pain but there.

“G’rlt?” he mumbles, a trickle of blood escaping the corner of his lips.

Geralt winces, before gently wiping it away, startling when Jaskier covers his hand with his own. 

“Yes,” he answers quietly. “You need to drop the glamour, Jas, it’s hurting you,” Geralt requests quietly, but Jaskier is already shaking his head. 

“No,” he says stubbornly, voice dropping. “D’nt want you t-to hate me.”

And here goes Geralt’s heart, breaking into hundreds of pieces, because it’s one thing for Jaskier to forget to drop the glamour, and another for him to be scared of it, as not to make Geralt hate him.

As if he could ever not love the bard.

Very carefully, Geralt puts one hand on the side of Jaskier’s face and tilts it to face the Witcher. He knows he doesn’t smile much, but to smile at Jaskier feels natural so he just lets an instinct to take over.

“I could never hate you, Jas,” he says quietly, making sure the bard understands him. “Especially not for something that you are. I...All of you is my friend, elf ears and everything included.”

Its the most he can say now, without breaking his own heart, because Geralt really isn’t ready to tell Jaskier everything. Especially not now, with the bard so weak and delirious. 

Jaskier looks at him for a long moment, before closing eyes and exhaling. With his breath, a shimmer of blue falls over him and when Geralt looks at him again, there are the pointed ears and something that feels like a light under his skin. Even sick and feverish, with blood on his lips Jaskier looks ethereal. The most beautiful thing Geralt had ever seen.

“There you are,” Geralt breaths, looking down at his friend fondly. 

“You don’t mind?” Jaskier asks, already a bit stronger.

“No,” he says simply. “Get better.”

He’s just about to stand when a soft hand wraps around his wrist. He looks down at Jaskier and is met with blue puppy eyes that he never learned to resist.

“Stay,” the bard pleads softly.

Geralt exhales and sits back down, freezing for a second when Jaskier slides closer and almost cuddles to his side, a bit too warm but not shaking anymore. Geralt stays still for a long moment before Jaskier makes a sound and he’s wrapping his arms around the bard and pulling him as close as possible.

“Thank you for being here,” he hears against his chest and Geralt’s chest constricts.

“Always.”

He means it too, whatever Jaskier understands it or not. He will always be there for the bard, until the day he dies, even if Jaskier doesn’t want him to. Jaskier is his one, and there will be no one else, Geralt knows that.

For now, he buries his face in Jaskier’s sweaty hair and falls asleep like that, holding his whole heart in his arms, safe and warm.

It’s really doesn’t take too long for Jaskier to get better after that, but Geralt is still protective, one might say that overprotective because the sight of the bard convulsing in bed and coughing up blood brought back some very bad memories. Geralt tries to keep Jaskkier still as much as he can, wrapped in his animal skins and drinking warm fluids, but the bard is bored. When the spring finally comes, and the trees start to get green again, he has to admit defeat.

They’re standing on the balcony, Jaskier almost vibrating in place as they admire the world in front of them. The forest around the fortress is already blooming with life, birds bringing noise again, and Geralt can smell how happy Jaskier is. It’s worth worrying over his health constantly.

“Look at it, Geralt!” he calls, leaning against the railing. Geralt takes a step closer to make sure he won’t fall. “I missed this, the winter was so long and cold. Not that I really disliked it, mind you, as this winter was full of unexpected but delightful things.”

Geralt allows himself a smile and leans against the railing next to Jaskier, allowing the bard to brush their shoulders together. As always, every touch sends a shiver down his spine. As always, it makes him want to reach out and touch Jaskier himself, not something he’s used to doing.

Jaskier touches him often, with no hesitation now, leaning against him, tugging at his arm, downright sitting on his lap while composing his next ballad. It’s driving Geralt crazy and he knows that the other Witchers know, but Jaskier seems oblivious to it.

Maybe he’s just pretending, but his smile is always soft and sweet and his eyes are always dancing.

In moments like this, with the whole world spread underneath them and Geralt’s whole world standing next to him, he realizes just how much he missed it. Jaskier is as talkative as ever, rambling about nature and the sun and the birds, and this time, Geralt listens.

He mostly hums and corrects a few things, but Jaskier seems delighted by having him in the conversation. When Geralt notices the bard shiver, he hesitantly wraps an arm around his shoulders and almost melts when Jaskier steps even closer.

There’s no tension in his posture. The bard seems perfectly content, happy to be standing under Geralt’s arm, still babbling but now moving a bit less, as not to disturb the Witcher.

He feels like he can stand there forever.

“What’s your next destination?” Jaskier finally asks quietly, head on Geralt’s shoulder. The Witcher is pretending it’s not making his heart race, not at all.

“Ciri,” he answers. “Wherever she is.”

“Hmmm, yes, I think the child waited long enough,” the bard laughs. “But now you’re ready as well, and I know you’ll be good for her.”

Geralt isn’t really sure of that, he’s not guardian material, but he will try for Ciri. She deserves more than he can give her, but maybe, with Yennefer’s help… Maybe even Jaskier will help from time to time.

He tries not to think about how they’ll be parting ways soon.

Usually, he hates winter, hates being cooped up in one place for so long, but with Jaskier by his side, it seemed to pass easier. Geralt doesn’t want to lose the bard again, not after finally getting him back.

He’s afraid to ask, afraid of rejection that will undoubtedly come. He can apologize all he wants, but 13 years apart have done their job. Geralt isn’t sure Jaskier will follow him around anymore, even after his apologies, and he certainly can’t follow the bard now. He has a child to find.

“That’s a heavy silence,” the bard notices after a while, still leaning against him.

Geralt glances at Jaskier and shrugs one shoulder. “Things are changing.”

Jaskier chuckles, looking up at the Witcher with those stunning, blue eyes. Geralt’s knees go weak suddenly and he has to grab the railing harder to stay upright.

“I’d say they’ve been changing the whole winter, my dear,” he notices, eyes bright. “For the better, certainly for the better.”

“And what now?”

The question hangs in the silence for a long while, before Jaskier turns to face him, his hands on Geralt’s cheeks. Geralt stares at him in trepidation, scared more than he can remember. There are so many ways to interpret this question and Geralt doesn’t even know if he wants to know the answer.

“What do you want, Geralt?”

That’s a good one. He wants so many things, none of which he can actually say, and it’s tearing him up inside. He’s sure that Jaskier can see it because the bard touches their foreheads together, still staring straight into Geralt’s eyes.

“Tell me?” he requests quietly, but Geralt shakes his head, suddenly freezing inside.

“Not today.”

The bard doesn’t hold it against him, just squeezes the back of his neck and slides back to stand by Geralt’s side as if nothing happened. Geralt can hear his heart, slightly faster than normal, but he still smells like chamomile, parchment and forest, like happiness and home.

He’s not sure how he’s going to part with this.

He doesn’t see Jaskier for the rest of the day, as the bard locks himself inside his room with Coën, and Geralt tries very hard not to growl or stare. Eskel already left, he knows that and he finds Lambert in the stables, tending to his horse.

“Back on the Path,” the man mutters, packing everything. “What about you?”

“Not today,” he says again, wincing at the words.

Lambert hums. “Ask your bard to come with you,” he says easily. “Everyone can smell that he wants to, aside from you apparently. Just ask him, Geralt.”

Geralt growls and doesn’t say anything. It’s not as easy as Lambert makes it out to be, but the man can’t know that. To Geralt’s knowledge he never actually fell in love, he doesn’t know how difficult it really is.

How much it hurts.

(Geralt doesn’t know that there’s more waiting for Lambert outside than just the Path)

“You got your second chance, from what I see,” the other Witcher says, already atop his horse and heading towards the gate. “Don’t fuck it up again.”

With that he’s gone, leaving Geralt standing alone with his thoughts. Vesemir is still somewhere in the fortress, as are Coën and Jaskier, but Geralt doesn’t want company now.

He heads to the same balcony he stood with Jaskier a few hours ago and just stares at the world. There’s a storm in his head and a flood in his heart and it's entirely too much for someone who’s not supposed to feel anything at all.

Geralt doesn’t notice the night falling around him, deep in meditation but not resting at all.

It’s someone’s gentle touch that rouses him and he opens his eyes to see Jaskier leaning over him. The sky behind the bard is barely grey, the sun not yet up. Geralt frowns, confused, and Jaskier just tugs him up.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Hate it, I’ll be irritable the whole day, but I just kept tossing and turning and I woke up at least 7 times during the night and that’s even more than I do sometimes on the road,” the bard complains. “Then I just decided to find you. Have you slept at all?”

“I meditated,” Geralt replies tiredly. His body isn’t happy with him, but he’s had worse.

“That’s not enough,” Jaskies tuts. “You have to take care of yourself, Geralt, it’s not healthy.”

All he can do is smile and shrug, still not saying something.

“It’s not yesterday,” Jaskier says suddenly after 10 or so minutes. The sun is not peeking over the horizon yet, but the sky is brighter now, bathed in colour. “You can tell me what you want today. I couldn’t sleep because I was wondering.”

Geralt stays stubbornly silent, so the bard turns to face him and glares at him playfully. Then, his eyes soften. “Geralt, please. Tell me.”

It’s impossibly hard to do, but Lambert’s words echo in his head and Jaskier smells like comfort and something sweeter, deep and burning and Geralt wants to bathe in it, never let it go.

“I want you to go with me,” he finally confesses, watching Jaskier’s eyes widen. “I can’t follow you, I have a child to find, but I wish you’d go with me, because I don’t think I can do it alone, without you. I want you to travel with me again, as my friend. I missed you on the road and I don’t want to miss you again.”

It’s almost physically painful to say, but Jaskier’s eyes are welling up with tears and Geralt almost panics, but the bard still smells like comfort and that sweet scent.

Jaskier’s hands tangle in Geralt’s long hair and the hold is almost painful, but he doesn’t care because Jaskier’s eyes look like the sky and the sea and Geralt wants to see them every day for the rest of his life.

“Tell me,” the bard demands.

Geralt can’t do anything but obey. “I love you.”

His bard gasps and the tears fall, but he leans more into him, sagging against the Witcher’s body. It gives him the strength to keep going.

“I’ve loved you for a long time but I was too scared to admit it.” He had 13 years to ponder that and it’s easier to admit than Geralt thought. “I’m in love with you, Jaskier, and I hate that I broke us for 13 years out of anger. I never want to hurt you again.”

The smile Jaskier gives him makes Geralt’s heart stop and the bard laughs wetly, pressing their bodies together.

“You stupid fucker,” his bard gasps, smiling all the while. “You made me wait for almost 20 years to hear that.”

Geralt just stares at him, crying and smiling, blue eyes dancing, and when the sun finally rises, Jaskier truly looks like an ethereal elf, beautiful and all his.

He’s not sure which one of them leans into the kiss, but they meet in the middle. Jaskier tastes like tears and ale and sleep, and fuck, Geralt wants to taste him every day, as often as he can.

He gathers the bard even closer, arms tight around the other man as Jaskier’s wrap around his neck, pushing into his hair. It’s like coming home after decades on the road and Geralt wants to curse his own stupidity that made them wait so long, but all he can think of is Jaskier.

“I love you too if you haven’t gathered that much by now,” Jaskier snickers against his lips, bright and lovely in his arms.

Geralt rolls his eyes as if his heart isn’t jumping wildly in his chest. “I am not that stupid, Jaskier,” he drawls.

“Hmm, whatever you say, Witcher,” his bard purrs, hiding his face in Geralt’s neck.

He just hugs him closer and watches the Sunrise above Jaskier’s head, nose pressed against his hair. He smells like home and Geralt and for once there’s no Coën in his scent. It makes Geralt growls and Jaskier laughs hearing it.

“My White Wolf,” he says fondly. “Now I have to add it to the songs - you most definitely growl like a wolf.”

“You’ll be writing more songs about me?” Geralt asks, surprised and hopeful.

“Well of course,” Jaskier states, looking at him strangely. “I presume we’ll have many hunts together in the years to come, and I’ll never pass an opportunity to write a good song about the famous White Wolf.”

“You want to-”

Jaskier kisses him before he can finish the question and Geralt happily gets lost in it.

“Of course, my stupid Witcher,” Jaskier snorts. “You’re the love of my life, and you know that elves only love once. I’m not letting you go for at least a few months.”

“What about Coën?” Geralt asks before he can stop himself.

“What about him? We’ll meet again, during autumn equinox in Oxenfurt. We’ll spend some time together when you and I part ways, and then we will meet again, as we always do.”

“That easy?”

Jaskier’s smile is brighter than the sun. “It’s never easy with us, Geralt of Rivia, but I think we’ll manage. Somehow, we always end up meeting, whether we want it or not. Now that we’re together, I doubt that Fate will part us for long.”

Geralt doesn’t like thinking about Fate usually, but it has brought him Jaskier, bright and warm in his arms, and there’s a child waiting for them somewhere. Maybe it’s not so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know if u liked it! (plz i need validation from strangers on the internet lmao)  
> i may or may not write an epilogue, kinda like a chapter 4?? possibly just for fluff and smut


	4. Author's Note

Hello! 

I don't know if anyone still wants to know but to answer some of the questions in the comments:

  1. Yes I AM writing a seque/chapter 4. It's taking me way too much time because I have the attention span of a goldfish and kind of forgot about this fic but I re-read it and am now filled with need to write some fluffy continuation
  2. The timeline is messed up and I have no explanation. I messed up when I started to write it (no proper research) and now it's way too late to fix it, so we can just assume that Ciri is 13 now, and the dragon hunt just happened way earlier. Basically everything happened those 13 years earlier so the djin and Yen and stuff
  3. Coën is hinted to be aroace and his friendship with Jaskier is completely platonic. I will write him into the sequel and he will be treated with respect, promise! 



Generally, just thank you for the amazing, overwhelming response. I'm still getting comments on this fic and I'm so thankful for every one of you. I love this fic with all my heart, it's basically everything I want from the post ep 6 fix-it when it comes to Geralt's character development and I kind of want to continue it, with some more snippets.

So, yes, more is coming. At least one more addition, maybe more if inspiration strikes but I wanted to make sure you knew. Those of you who are still interested anyway. Once again, thank you for your time and comments and love ❤️❤️❤️

**Author's Note:**

> second chapter will be geralt and apologies i promise. and fluff.


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